Finding Her Way Home (8 page)

The hardworking, kindhearted Trace Bowman, a mess? Like her? No way.

She wanted to hear more, but by now they were nearing the ragtag pair of old men who stood on the bank, fishing lines dangling in the gurgling waters. Before Cheyenne could pry into Trace's private life, one of the men called out.

“Ahoy, there! Is that the doc and little Zoey?”

Trace lifted a hand in greeting. “It is.”

“Who's that with you? Cheyenne Rhodes?”

Trace and Cheyenne exchanged glances.

“How did he know?”

Trace widened his eyes as if to say he had no clue. “Yes, sir, this is her. We're taking the tour.”

“Well, come on over and say howdy. Me and Popbottle was just talking about our new lady in town. Wasn't we, Popbottle?”

“Indeed. Had we not seen you, we would have inquired tomorrow at the clinic about her well-being.”

Why would two old bums care about her?

The bank was damp and her boots sank slightly into the mud as she approached the odd pair. Gingerly, she lifted her boot for a look.

Trace noticed and said, “Beats what I slog through every day.”

She made a face. He grinned.

Trace Bowman had the best grin, one of those eye-squinting, dimple-deepening, full-faced grins that could charm anyone into anything. Like Paul Ramos.

She dropped her boot to the ground and sighed.

Don't go getting distracted, Cheyenne. Men are men.

Behind the fisherman, two rewoven lawn chairs were perched a few feet from the water. An old metal box, the hinges wired together, hung open like a wide mouth pouring out fishing lures, red and white floats, shiny gold hooks.

“Catching anything?” Trace asked.

“Not a bite all afternoon.” Popbottle Jones sounded as chipper as if he'd caught a truckful.

“Why are you still at it?”

“Fishing and prayer go together like bologna and cheese.” G. I. Jack made the statement as though it made sense.

Cheyenne studied the older fellow with interest. Wearing his usual bedraggled army cap and jacket, he hadn't shaved in a while and hair sprouted from his face as well as from the sides of the cap and the tops of his ears. Today, a slice of pizza protruded from his shirt pocket. Pepperoni.

“What my compatriot means is that a man can solve many problems with a fishing rod in hand, the sun warming his back and the Lord Almighty on his shoulder.” Popbottle Jones placed a light hand on Zoey's hair. Cheyenne expected his nails to be dirty. They weren't. “Zoey, my girl, keep an eye on my line, will you please?”

Zoey giggled and took the offered fishing rod in her small hands, unoffended by the impossible request. “Popbottle says I can see with my heart.”

“We all can. You're just better at it.” The interesting old man squatted beside the metal box and rummaged around, coming out with a black rubber worm. “Ah, this should do the trick. No bass can resist a black worm. So tell me, Cheyenne Rhodes, how do you like our fair city?”

Hands shoved into the pockets of her jeans, Cheyenne answered, “I like it. It's quiet and peaceful.”

Focused on threading the plastic worm onto a hook, he said, “A telling remark, I'm sure you realize. One who seeks peace must understand what it means to be without peace.”

“Everyone needs peace and quiet,” she said, a little too defensively. What was the deal with these people? Had she stumbled upon a town full of wannabe psychiatrists? Or just a bunch of religious nuts?

No, that wasn't fair. People in Redemption had gone out of
their way to be kind and helpful. Just because she had a chip on her shoulder and a knot in her gut wasn't their fault.

“Have you been to the well yet?” the old man asked casually, still at work on the fishing lure.

“The well?” she asked, lifting a brow toward Trace. “The town well?”

The three men exchanged looks that Cheyenne didn't comprehend.

“Go on, Doc,” G. I. Jack prodded. “Take her to see the well.”

A weird feeling came over her.

What was the big deal about a well?

I
n less than ten minutes, they'd recrossed the stone bridge and driven to the town center. A few cars puttered around the cul-de-sac and down the main thoroughfare, but Redemption was mostly quiet. Cheyenne had yet to adjust to the slow pace in a small town, though she appreciated it.

A little too aware of her boss across the seat, Cheyenne turned her face toward the town circle. “I noticed this little park the day I arrived. It's beautiful. And right here in the center of town.”

“Town Square,” he corrected. “Back in the Land Run days, all the businesses and homes were built around the square for safety and convenience.”

“I'm glad progress didn't see fit to destroy it.”

He killed the motor. “I had the same thought when I first moved here.”

Seat belts clattered as they were unlatched. The sun was lowering in the west, nearing sunset, but enough daylight remained for a brief look.

Zoey was out of the cab first. “I smell flowers.”

Cheyenne took a deep breath, drawing in the clean scent. “Sweet William. And lots of it.”

Zoey stopped, nose in the air and sniffed loudly. “Sweet William? No one ever told me that.”

Trace slammed his door but didn't bother to press the locks. Another small-town habit Cheyenne would have to get used to, though personally, she would never leave anything unlocked. Even small towns had criminals or they wouldn't need a police force.

“That's because your dad wouldn't know a sweet William from a sour Sue,” Trace said.

“Oh, Daddy.” To Cheyenne, Zoey said, “He's silly but I like him, don't you?”

She and Trace exchanged amused glances. Yes, she liked him, and she shouldn't. Maybe she should find another job where the boss wasn't single and charming and nice-looking. But she'd been running on survival instinct for too long, and she was tired of running, period. She liked her boss. Big deal. She'd liked Captain Boggs, too.

Okay, so that was a different kind of like. The captain had been over sixty and happily married for forty years. And Trace Bowman…wasn't.

“Daddy?”

“Waiting for you, pumpkin.”

The child was a pleasant distraction from thinking about the father. As she rounded the vehicle, Zoey's fingertips lightly skirted the metal frame until they made contact with Trace.

“One step,” Trace said. He pulled up on the little girl's arm to keep her from stumbling on the curb.

Up she went, lithely, easily, and with confidence. Trace had given her that. There was no way a blind child could be this well adjusted without great adults in her life. Trace treated Zoey as a sighted child most of the time and held her to high expectations. The result was this wonderful, resilient little girl with a killer smile and a zest for life.

A twinge of sadness tried to creep in again. She and Paul had
discussed children, though he was less enthusiastic than she. They'd planned for two, one of each, but now that would never happen. Not with Paul. Not with anyone.

As they crossed the street, the smell of green spring was in the air, along with a hint of exhaust from circling cars. Most of the shops were already closed, an anomaly to a woman accustomed to the city where stores kept late hours.

Their shoes made soft taps on the stone walkway. A horn honked and Trace raised a hand in greeting.

“Pastor Parker,” he said, and Cheyenne stared with interest after the passing pickup truck, though she couldn't make out the preacher.

“Want to sit on one of the benches, or roam around? When people drive past, I can tell you all the gossip about them.” That one charming dimple deepened. “We have some characters in Redemption, let me tell you.”

“So I've noticed,” she said. “But I thought we came to see the well.”

“Okay. That first. Whatever the lady wishes. After all, you did pay good money for this tour.”

“I should think so. A whole dollar.”

They fell in step again, their arms brushing as they walked. With concerted effort, Cheyenne put a couple of inches between them.

Touching Trace Bowman, even accidentally, was not a good idea. She liked it too much.

Up ahead, she could see the little well right in the center of the park. Covered by a simple, cone-shaped roof on stilts, the well was obviously as old as Redemption Bridge.

Zoey skipped on ahead, her white cane skittering before her, as though she could see as well as anyone. She plopped down on a bench outside the gazebo, flipped upside down, draped her legs over the back and began to hum. Her hair hung down toward the sidewalk like a black waterfall.

Trace poked a finger in her belly as they passed by. She grabbed the spot with both hands and giggled.

“Is this the original well?” Cheyenne asked.

“Hand-dug by Jonas Case himself along with a few other reformed outlaws. Says so right here on the stone.”

The lettering was weathered and faded but still remarkably easy to read.

“Amazing masonry for that time period.”

“The same men built the bridge. If you're interested in that kind of thing, Jonas left pretty extensive journals you can see in the Land Run Museum. The language is quaint and stilted, and he was not an educated man, but his writings put you right back in the 1880s. He described how the town was built, who came and why. Along with copies of his sermons, he even listed the Christian converts he dunked in Redemption River.”

“Redemption River,” she mused. What kind of redemption did people seek here? Redemption from the evil deeds they'd done? Redemption from the evils done to them? Was such a thing even possible? A yearning rose inside her.

She'd never given religion much thought, though she'd considered herself a Christian. After the encounter with Dwight Hector, she'd decided religion was all smoke and mirrors and no substance. God might be up in heaven, but He didn't hang around a tequila-shooting cop.

Trace obviously believed. But then, he hadn't walked a mile in her shoes.

She traced a finger over the top of the rectangular plaque. Encased in protective glass, the stone was etched with the date June 1889, and the names of three men. Below the names were the words
Come unto me, all ye who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest
.

She could feel Trace watching her and wondered if he expected some kind of reaction to the well, the men or the scripture. She felt nothing but mild interest.

“Very interesting place,” she conceded. “Someday when my boss lets me leave early, I'll check out the museum.”

A beat passed before Trace said, “Anytime you want.”

Cheyenne couldn't help thinking she'd disappointed him some way, but couldn't imagine how. What had he wanted her to see that she obviously hadn't? What had the two old bums expected?

“Will you be my tour guide?” she asked, trying to make up for whatever she'd done wrong.

His eyes crinkled. “Got another dollar?”

“My boss is a miser but I can probably swing it.”

“Hey!” He pretended hurt. “A miser?”

“A generous miser. You've also fed me practically every day.”

“Burgers and sodas.” He shook his head. “We gotta do better than that next time. Redemption has a steak house, you know.”

Next time.
Tonight had felt almost like a date. Could she let there be a next time?

 

Trace pulled the truck to the parking area in back of the clinic and put the transmission out of gear, but left the motor running. Night had fallen and the kennels were in shadow, lit only by one security light and the truck's low beams. A dog appeared. His eyes glowed red in the yellow light. He woofed once.

“Thanks for going with me again.”

Body turned sideways away from him, Cheyenne reached for the door handle, ready to leave. “Enjoyed it.”

He didn't know if that was true or a nicety, but he'd take what she offered. “You want to come down to the house for a while?”

She whipped around. “What?”

Even in shadow she was pretty. Earlier, as they'd walked around the square, he'd been tempted to take hold of her hand, but something had held him back. Not since he was a teenager had he felt so insecure with a woman. He couldn't figure her out. Maybe the mystery was her appeal, though he doubted he was that shallow.

After seeing Margo off and on for over a year, Trace had
given up on anything but friendship. Cheyenne Rhodes, on the other hand, was on his mind more than any woman had been since Pamela died. He wanted to know her better.

“Just a thought,” he said, trying his best to keep the invitation casual and light. “Watch a little tube. Eat a little popcorn. Kick back. Relax. No big deal.” Which it wasn't. Was it?

Holding her watch close to the dash light, she said, “It's late. I don't know. I shouldn't.”

He pointed a finger at her and grinned, hoping. “At least admit you're tempted. A man has a fragile ego, you know.”

In the shadowy lighting, her mouth curved. “Maybe.”

He thumped his fist on the steering wheel. “I'll take that as a yes. You haven't really lived until you've tasted Doc Bowman's chili-cheese popcorn.”

She laughed, and his stomach lifted as if he'd jumped from an airplane. Cheyenne Rhodes needed to laugh more often. And he needed to hear her.

“You think a bachelor would joke about a thing as important as his specialty snack?”

“You make chili-cheese popcorn yourself? For real?”

“You're breaking my heart, lady. Sure, I make it myself. Chili-cheese popcorn is an old family recipe passed down for generations. Well, one generation. My mom taught me. It is a very complicated procedure, mastered only by a few of the most skilled culinary artists. You'll be impressed.”

Her smile widened. “How can I refuse an offer to see a genius at work?”

As lighthearted as a kid, he put the truck in gear to drive the fifty yards of gravel road between his work and his home. The low ranch-style brick house had been built by the previous vet. When Trace had arrived in Redemption to take over the practice, he'd been too devastated by Pamela's death to care where he lived. If not for Zoey, he'd have lived in the clinic. If not for his faith and his child, he might not have lived at all.

A silent prayer of gratitude welled in his heart. He'd come a long way. If he could find life and hope and joy in Redemption, anyone could. He glanced again at Cheyenne's profile. Even his lovely assistant.

As the headlights swept over the house, he pressed the garage-door opener clipped on his visor and eased the outsized truck inside. The vehicle was still rocking when Zoey hopped out and, cane swaying wildly, zoomed inside the house.

Trace killed the motor and grinned. “Potty break.”

Feeling good and glad to spend more time with Cheyenne, he turned in the seat, angling his body toward her. He made no move to exit the truck. Neither did she.

He'd been working with her day and night and other than in the exam rooms, this was the first time they'd really been alone.

Cheyenne's gaze followed his daughter's trail. “She's an amazing little girl, Trace. You've done a fantastic job.”

“I'm not doing anything special. Zoey's just—well, she's my little miracle.”

“She's wonderful.”

“Yeah. God didn't give her sight but he gave her so much more.”

“Would it be rude for me to ask what happened?”

“To her vision?” At her nod, he said, “Retinopathy.”

“I don't know what that is.”

“Basically retinopathy is a malformation of the blood vessels of the eye that sometimes occurs in premature babies.”

“Can anything be done?”

“Doctors tried, but the treatments didn't work.” Every six months, he took her for checkups, praying for a new treatment. Zoey never even asked. “She was born at six and a half months. The fact that she survived is a miracle. A real miracle. Vision or not, I'm thankful.” He'd lost Pamela but he could easily have lost them both.

“How much did she weigh?”

“Two and a half pounds.”

“Wow.” Cheyenne shivered. “Scary to think of a baby that small.”

“Tell me about it.” He held out one hand. The glow from the dash cast his cupped fingers in shadow. “She fit right here in my palm. Like a puppy instead of a child. I was out of my mind with fear.” And grief. A shattering combination that had left him numb and empty for months afterward.

“Fear can eat you alive.” Cheyenne's voice was soft, reflective, the admission revealing.

Maybe the shield of darkness gave her the courage to speak. Whatever it was, Trace didn't want her to stop.

“Sounds like the voice of experience.”

She gave him a shuttered look. “Everyone is afraid of something.”

He didn't know where to go with that, but a small voice inside urged him to keep talking. He didn't mind spilling his guts if the revelations helped her.

“After Pamela died,” he said, “I was lost. No one knew her heart was weak until it was too late. The strain of pregnancy was too much. She suffered a massive coronary and needed surgery to survive. They delivered Zoey by C-section, hoping to save them both. Zoey made it. Pamela didn't.”

“I'm sorry. I can't imagine…”

“That was a tough few months, let me tell you. I was devastated and scared stupid. How was I going to raise a baby—a visually impaired baby—without Pamela? I was mad at God. Mad at Pamela for leaving me. Just mad in general. I had to get away. A colleague heard about the need for a country vet in some rinky-dink little town called Redemption. I drove down to check out the place and something about it…”

“Redemption draws people,” she said softly.

“You felt it, too?”

She shook her head. “I don't know. Kitty Wainright said that to me on my first day in town.”

“It's true, you know. People come here for a variety of
reasons, lots of them because they're broken in some way. And God is waiting.”